


Nowhere But Old Places

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has a deep and abiding love for the southern coast of Italy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere But Old Places

**Author's Note:**

> Smutty more-or-less sequel to [Nesting Dolls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/325537) \- because I beat Arthur up, so he pretty much deserves it.

Eames has a deep and abiding love for the southern coast of Italy - particularly in late winter, when the days are warm without being uncomfortably hot, the nights are cool without being bitterly cold, and the rain, when it comes, is as comforting as a warm shower. It's rather like he imagines the coast of France to be, if you removed all the French people and replaced them with ridiculously beautiful Italians.

Three weeks in Sicily has only encouraged his love.

The woman who works the counter at the bakery, down the street from the small flat he and Arthur have procured, _adores_ Eames. She’s old enough to be his grandmother, but sharp as a whip, forever correcting his imprecise Italian and scheming to set him up with one of her dozens of – admittedly lovely – granddaughters; the oldest of whom is constantly scolding her: “Grandmother, he has a _gentleman friend_ ,” but she simply laughs it off.

Each morning’s visit ends with Eames laughing and kissing her cheek before he escapes with a loaf of rosemary bread and a box of cannoli.

Arthur loves cannoli, and Eames loves to watch him lick the sweet cream off the tips of his fingers. Really, it’s a win-win situation. A kiss on the cheek of an old lady is hardly any bother for it.

Eames is beginning to think he’ll retire to Italy – and it’s novel enough to think that he’ll actually _retire_ and not simply be killed or turned in to one of any half dozen crime syndicates for the substantial bounty on his head – and he’s a little dumbstruck to think he might one day be doing so with Arthur. The old woman’s cannoli is helping win Arthur over to the cause.

That is, of course, if he can get in on the ground-level of Arthur’s frankly frustrating work-ethic.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames clucks reproachfully as he sets the cannoli on the flat’s small breakfast table, “I thought we had an agreement that you wouldn’t do any work while we were on holiday.”

“This isn’t a holiday,” Arthur counters, though his lips turn up at the corners, fingers still clicking away on the keyboard of his laptop. His cell is out next to him, and as Eames watches, the screen lights up with a silent message. “This is kidnapping.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t victims of kidnapping normally put up more of a fight?”

The kitchen is barely as wide across as Eames is tall – there’s a tiny refrigerator, a two-burner range, and only one set of cupboards and a single section of counter next to the sink. Everything about the flat is small, in fact; but it’s full of windows rather than walls, and the tiny bedroom, consumed by the queen-sized bed, has a beautiful balcony with a view of the street. Altogether it’s smaller than Eames’ first flat, rented illegally when he was seventeen, and sometimes it feels like he and Arthur are living on top of one another, but neither of them seem to mind.

It’s honestly been the best three weeks in Eames’ recent memory – lack of personal space or not.

While Arthur types diligently, Eames sets himself to making coffee in an old-fashioned coffee press that makes the best brew Eames has ever tasted. He can’t abide by the shite that comes out of those plug-in makers even on a good day – now he believes reverently that nothing tastes as good as coffee brewed on the stove.

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” Arthur says, finally, eyeing Eames slyly over the back of the laptop.

Eames laughs at him, “Planning to kill me while I sleep?”

Arthur reluctantly closes his laptop at last and reaches for the box of cannoli, “Damn, you’ve caught me.” He takes a hearty bite of the delicate pastry and makes a deeply satisfied noise that does uncomfortable things to Eames’ nether-regions.

“The way I see it, so long as I keep you in cannoli, I’ve no reason to fear you going anywhere.”

Arthur doesn’t argue the point, but he doesn’t concede it either.

In the three weeks since their horribly botched business trip to Belgorod, all but the worst of Arthur’s cuts and bruises have healed. There are still some yellowing bruises, particularly along the left side of his jaw and over his ribs, but he doesn’t need the painkillers anymore, except when his wrist acts up. That particular injury is going to take longer to heal – the brace he has to wear frustrates him to no end, but he manages well enough.

"We're going to have to go back," Arthur tells him, firmly, as if Eames is a spoiled child, "Eventually."

And of course, Eames knows that. As much as he might fantasise – and he has a _rich_ fantasy life, particularly where Arthur’s concerned – about whittling his life away in a little Italian village with Arthur, there is something in him that knows he would get bored, doing only that. Both their lives have been so much more, and they’re not ready to stop yet.

Eames will miss it, though. He'll miss rosemary bread slathered in sweet butter, strong coffee and hand-rolled cigarettes. He'll miss long mornings in a soft bed, listening to the sounds on the street outside, and seeing Arthur wander undone through the flat, in an open-collared button-down and loose khakis (which is about as undone as Arthur gets so long as Eames doesn’t have his mouth or hands somewhere on Arthur’s body.)

Arthur gets up, carrying his empty mug to the sink. He’s really much too tidy for his own good, Eames thinks, but it’s as good a chance as any for Eames to trail after him, catching him just as he turns around and pinning him up against the edge of the counter with his body, caging him with his arms.

“What if I said I wasn’t going to? What if I don’t let you leave at all – ever?”

“I could kill you,” Arthur responds, less a warning than a cheerful suggestion, bracing his good hand on the edge of the counter, as if he’s planning on boosting himself up onto it – and the kitchen counter is perhaps the one place they _haven’t_ defiled yet. His tone is casual, but his gaze defiant. Eames is smitten.

“Such sweet nothings,” Eames purrs, nuzzling under Arthur’s jaw, ignoring his soft and slightly frustrated grunt. “It’s a wonder I resisted you for so long.”

That earns him a laugh, “ _I_ resisted _you_ , remember?”

“Did you? Well, that certainly explains a lot.”

The way Eames rubs the tip of his nose against Arthur’s cheek is a shameless petition for a kiss; Arthur doesn’t give those up easily, but he surrenders one now, languid and open-mouthed, lips sliding and catching. His one hand stays braced on the counter, the other hanging limp by his side, but Eames isn’t so restrained. He settles his hands on Arthur’s hips, digs his fingers in a little...

“Not a chance,” Arthur steps sideways, breaking Eames’ hold like it’s nothing. “We are not having sex on the counter. We cook on this counter.”

“Need I remind you how many parts of my person have been in contact with your mouth recently?”

“You’re an asshole,” Arthur warns him, but he’s smiling, and backpedalling towards the bedroom. Eames closes the distance between them, with three quick steps, planning to crowd Arthur up against the wall and kiss him again; but Arthur sees him coming, grabs the front of his shirt, hooking a heel behind Eames’ leg and pulling him off-balance so that Eames has to catch himself on the doorframe.

“Careful darling,” Eames huffs, amused and wishing he didn’t enjoy it so much when Arthur manhandled him, “you’ll damage the goods.”

Arthur’s knee slides up between his legs and Arthur’s teeth scrape along his jaw in response. For a moment, Eames forgets to breathe.

“Bloody hell, Arthur...”

Arthur laughs against his neck, and because turnabout is fair play, Eames grabs an easy handful of his button-down shirt and uses his size and strength deliberately to steer Arthur towards the bed, not letting up until Arthur is almost literally crawling backwards across the mattress – awkward, with his injured wrist cradled across his chest. Eames makes quick pursuit – it’s partially a defensive reaction to avoid being kicked in the face – and makes quick work of pulling the tails of Arthur’s shirt out of his trousers.

“Don’t get cocky,” Arthur warns, which just makes Eames laugh, full-bodied, as he pulls his own shirt off over his head, before tackling Arthur’s buttons. His life would be so much easier if Arthur’s idea of casual wasn’t _business_ -casual but this is the lot he has drawn, so he will just have to make the best of it.

And if Arthur loses a few buttons in the process...so be it.

He adores Arthur’s stomach, soft and tight, dusted with hair in a tantalizing trail that disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers. Eames rubs his nose against it, stirs the hair with the steady pant of his breathing, and presses his lips against Arthur’s zipper where it’s being pushed outward by the growing swell of his cock. Arthur’s fingers push through Eames’ hair and a palm rubs the back of his neck as Arthur murmurs, “Yeah – c’mon.”

Stripping Arthur down never ceases to be both a challenge and a joy, like unwrapping a particularly beautiful, engaging, and responsive gift; though Eames would prefer if there weren’t so many zippers and buttons, and if Arthur didn’t take such a quiet and perverse joy in making him work for all of his rewards. Not that Arthur’s hands are ever idle – they find and unfasten the front of Eames’ trousers even while Arthur is kissing him like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. It requires considerable effort on Eames’ part to coax Arthur’s fingers away from his cock – not least of all because he doesn’t want to hurt Arthur’s wrist – but Eames is nothing if not determined. Bless Arthur’s vaguely obsessive little heart, but he’s much too goal-oriented for what Eames has in mind; if they’re going to be going home, then he’s going to enjoy this first.

Arthur is most sensitive on the insides of his thighs, and he makes the most delightful noises when Eames rubs his cheeks there, rasping the soft skin with his stubble. He also digs his heels into Eames’ back and curses him for a tease, but that’s to be expected.

“Is this going to be an all-day thing?” Arthur demands, looking peevish and lovely, with his arms thrown up above his head and his dark hair in a tousle. He looks thoroughly debauched already, and Eames hasn’t graced his straining cock with more than a soft kiss.

“It could be, if I wanted it,” Eames would revel in the slow, determined exploration of Arthur’s body, if given the chance; leave him wet and trembling, flushed from head to toe. Eames would cover him in delicate bite marks and taste every inch of skin he could find. For the moment, he settles for licking his way into Arthur’s mouth and running his fingers along Arthur’s ribs.

The bottle of lubricant is, by necessity, near at hand – housed permanently on the bedside table next to a long strip of little foil squares – and Arthur’s eyes go heavy-lidded when Eames grabs it, tongue sliding hungrily over his lower lip, mouth slack and eager as he watches Eames smear a mess of it on his fingers.

Eames rubs his shining fingers against the tender skin behind Arthur’s balls and purrs, “Say please, darling.”

“You _asshole_ ,” Arthur hisses, though he spreads his legs wider and does his damnedest to rock down towards Eames’ hand. “I’m not going to beg.”

“But you do it so prettily.” Eames is not, however, cruel; nor is he a man of infinite patience – and he’s rather addicted to the soft, breathy sounds that Arthur makes when his fingers slide in.

“Fuck, yes – finally...” Arthur breathes, as if Eames has already been torturing him for hours; dragging Eames into a kiss and rolling with the movement of his fingers. “That’s _perfect_.”

Eames could easily say something foolish at this point – and truthfully, he wants to – but instead he forces out a rather glib, “I try my very best,” curling his fingers so that he can watch Arthur arch up off the mattress, feel him clench hot and slick around his fingers.

Arthur has a beautiful flush all across his body, from the thighs spread welcomingly around Eames, to the tips of his ears. Eames takes a peaked nipple in his mouth and graces it with a delicate bite that makes Arthur curse and pull at Eames’ hair enough to make his scalp sting. Despite his determination not to beg, it’s not long before he’s tangling his good hand in the sheets and babbling, “Please, please, please, Eames – fuck – please...” with a puddle of pearly fluid in the hollow of his stomach.

When Eames pulls his fingers out, Arthur is trembling, chest heaving as he breathes, though when Eames’ fingers fumble on the condom wrapper, Arthur has no trouble getting it open or helping Eames unroll it down the length of his cock.

The desperation goes out of them both as Eames slides into him. Eames moves slowly, but steadily, with a force encouraged by the clutch of Arthur’s hand on his arse, but their kisses become languid and slippery. Eames gets his hand around Arthur’s cock and strokes slowly, until Arthur is rocking into it, eyes nearly closed, mouth wide and gasping, clutching tight around Eames as he comes.

“You’re beautiful,” Eames tells him, helpless now that he’s chasing his orgasm deep into the heat of Arthur’s body, his mouth gone away from him as he watches Arthur rub fingers through the mess of come on his chest and stomach. “You’re bloody gorgeous – I don’t – I don’t know what I’m even going to do without...”

He hopes he’s not imagining it, but Arthur’s face seems fond, gentle, as he brings his hand up, smearing come on Eames’ chin as he slips his fingers past Eames’ lips, bringing the taste of himself to Eames’ tongue.

Eames’ orgasm feels endless, like he’s going to turn inside out, like it’s born from somewhere deep inside his bones. He drops forward as it’s wrung out of him, and Arthur’s hand is immediately on the back of his neck, fingertips gentle against the short fuzz of his hair until Eames can pull himself up and move over so that he isn’t crushing Arthur. He tosses the condom somewhere in the direction of the bin – though he’s fairly sure he misses – and collapses on his back.

“Bloody hell,” he announces finally, when the view of the water-marked ceiling becomes somewhat dull, and he can trust himself to speak again. “That was some last hurrah.”

“Eames, what the hell are you talking about?”

Eames turns his head and finds Arthur glaring at him across the pillow. His hair is all over the place and the colour is still high in his cheekbones – shagged out and suspicious is a surprisingly good look on him.

“Nothing,” Eames turns onto his side, propping up on one elbow so he can put his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He’s become alarmingly used to seeing Arthur with his hair unkempt – the next time they meet it will probably be once again pomaded within an inch of its life.

“Bullshit,” Arthur responds, shaking Eames’ hand off and sitting up. He hisses softly when he accidently uses his injured wrist to do it. He looks down at Eames for a long moment, and Eames feels like he must have utterly no poker face at all. “I can’t believe you’re such an idiot.”

“You really do know how to make a fellow feel big about himself darling,” Eames mutters, nearly rolling his eyes, but instead just looking somewhere in the region of Arthur’s navel, in the hopes of seeming less pathetic.

“Oh _shut up_ ,” Arthur sighs, pushing Eames’ shoulder until he is forced onto his back again, straddling him and kissing him roughly, biting at his lower lip. “You are a fucking _idiot_ Eames. And a terrible liar.” He pauses at that, and laughs. Eames loves Arthur’s laugh; his joyful face makes him look so very young. “I can’t believe you’re such a terrible liar!”

“I’d appreciate knowing what exactly I’m lying about,” Eames huffs, face hot, squirming a little under Arthur’s weight.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Arthur parrots back at him, in a truly _awful_ approximation of his accent. “You really think I’m going to just take off, is that it? Leave tomorrow and not see you again until the next time we run a job together?”

Eames simply raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t think his determination is entirely unfounded. Before Belgorod they danced around their mutual attraction with the skill of Prima Donnas in the Moscow Ballet.

“Please,” Arthur rolls his eyes at last, “as if I’ve _ever_ been able to get rid of you that easily.”

Eames is the one who laughs at that, pulling Arthur down with a hand on the back of his neck and kissing him until his lips sting from it. “I have been told I’m a bit of a limpet.”

“Definitely.” Arthur swings his leg back, climbing off Eames and then off the bed entirely, heading in the direction of the flat’s small bathroom. “Now quit being such an asshole about going back. I already booked our tickets.”

“I should have known,” Eames mutters, sitting up and looking to hunt down his trousers, wanting a fag. “Should have thrown your laptop in the bin when I had the chance. When are we leaving, then?”

Arthur pauses in the bathroom doorway and looks back over his shoulder. In any other situation, the grin on his face would leave Eames reaching for the nearest projectile weapon. “Two weeks from tomorrow. I trust that isn’t going to be a problem.”

Eames grins, warm with a strange relief. This is Arthur, he thinks, for all his little details somehow utterly unpredictable. “That might even give me enough time to pack my suitcase.”

“Enough time to take a shower, too.”

Arthur vanishes into the bathroom, and Eames immediately gives up looking for his cigarettes. With only two weeks of vacation left, they might as well make the most of it.

-End-


End file.
